


A Whole Different Story

by PlasticEyes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ambush and rescue, F/F, Fluff, They're kind of great together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7068592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlasticEyes/pseuds/PlasticEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tracer get’s caught in an ambush, and Widowmaker is irritatingly falling in love. </p><p>(Excuse my french, google translate is my friend.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whole Different Story

She knows she’s in trouble.

From the scattering bullets of guns whizzing fire across her peripheral vision to the constant movement in her feet – _zim zam zoom_ –all around from one spot to another and another and _another_.

“God, get _out_ of there Tracer!”

Was she a _dunce_ of some of the sort? Of course that was the main goal at hand. Why would it not be? The entire place was coming down for Gods sake. And yet--

She was breathing hard, she was _gasping_ for air. She was stumbling over her typically well coordinated feet, her knees torn and tearing into a replacement of torn flesh spurting a red color that spread along the orange tint of her pants. And there were flames as her body connected with the contrasting cold asphalt of the parking garage, skimming across her arms scraping along the smooth and definite lines of her jaw.

“I’m coming I’m coming!” she yelled into the ear piece at the same time of an explosion just behind her. She struggled to prop herself up, staggering to a kneeling position and giving some time to inhale deeply at well needed oxygen. Oxygen tinted with the foreboding wisps of ash and smoke, clogging and scratching her throat moreover forcing her into emitting a stringful of hacking coughs.

“Tracer get out of there _now_!”

“Ah yes just having a bit of difficu –”

Do you know that sense of a pressure? Building up at your chest and exerting a breathy “oof” until it comes crushing down into a gut wrenching feeling of panic and distortion.

A piece of the building’s fallen cemented ceiling had begun to crush her.

That was the first warning.

Time was flung backwards in a sputtering moment and she was springing out of the way of the ceiling piece. That was all about what she could do, coming onto the literal fact at the sight and hearing of the fizzing spurts of the faintly glowing machine strapped across her chest.

 _Not good_ –hardly thought as the ceiling gave a final groan and completely concaved inwards.

She was dodging she was running.

She was running, _god_ she was running in evasion and _evading_ a portending thought creeping along the sides of her vision. Her shins skidding at the ground and arms pumping friction breathlessly at her sides. Static screaming at her through one ear while explosions roaring spit and inferno at her other.

She was gasping and crying and desperate and clawing madly away at an impending end to herself. A light showing at the end of a tunnel stained with ash and charcoal. 

“ _Help_ –help please _help!_ ” even though she knew no response would come. “Please request –,” barely sliding out of the way of a car smashing through the ceiling. Her eyes were all but wide with fear, ground to her back and perhaps all too aware to the fact that rewinding an action would be beyond possible in her condition.

Panicked and in _shock_.

Bloody and wheezing, scraped and in _dismay_.

“Please _someone!_ ” she screamed into her ear piece. “–someone _help me_ out of here! Get me out _get me out_ I don’t want this _god plea--_ ”

…

…

…

_To say she knew what was going on --_

_To say she felt the fingers dancing above her vision._

_Arms enveloping her limp form._

_Swirling and twirling._

_Weaving a purple smoke between the snarling orange and black shades of burning rubble._

_An incessant ache to her head even as her sight finally went black._

_Skin against skin smoldering a searing path within every trail touched._

…

…

…

“Wake up.”

“…”

“Wake _up_.”

“Mmn.”

“ _Mon cheri_ …”

“Mmmno g’way…”

“…*click*…wake up before I blast your brains out.”

Tracer was alive and _lit_ , eyes snapping open and back springing up at once. And maybe she would’ve gone more, taking into the extra measure of jumping to her feet or teleporting to the other side of the familiar room. Anywhere to get far and away from the cold barrel of a gun resting just above her forehead.

 “Oh good,” she stated nonchalantly, expressionless as she lowered the sniper’s tip to the carpeted flooring. “Finally.”

“Widowma-”

“Please,” the woman interrupted, now allowing a smile of amusement to spread across her features. “My correct name. We both know you know it.”

“Oh cut the innocent game! What have you done to me!” she accused, glaring at her before looking down at herself. “I’m –I feel like –like –”

“Like you’ve been run over by a truck? Trust me,” she laughed, now tossing the sniper carelessly to ground and grabbing at a granola bar off the bedside table just adjacent to her. “You really weren’t that far off from experiencing that _cheri_.”

“I –stop that.”

The woman didn’t look up, only continued to fumble with the wrapper to the granola bar. “Stop what now?”

“Don’t…” Tracer shook her head, ruffling up her sweat matted hair. “Why do’you keep calling me that.”

“qu'est-ce que tu parles chéri?[ what are you talking about darling?]” she said through muffled lips as her attention was now mainly focused on the biting through the top of the granola bar.

“No –no now you stop that. Stop that now! What did you even say this time?”

“ _merde[shit]_ –open already you stupid morceau de[piece of]…”

“Alright give me the damn granola bar!” she finally yelled, attempting to reach over and grab it. Immediately at the feeling of her back stretching over, her spine discharged a spark of pain traveling upwards and spreading fire across her chest. She screamed, both out of shock at the sudden bite of pain _everywhere_ and frightening helplessness as Amelie was up reaching towards her.

“Stop. Don’t mo- _AH stupide_ petit _baiseur_! [you stupid little fucker!]”

“Don’t!” she panted out, holding the hand that had inflicted the injury and scrambling backwards despite the throbbing until the back of her mechanism had hit the bed frame. “Leave just – don’t _touch_ me _please._ ”

Amelie held a hand to her stinging face, pure and utter rage quickly diminishing downwards at the sight of the girl’s confused distress. It was _a pity_ , to see a lively girl in such an absolute broken state. It wasn’t surprising she supposed, Amelie was an assassin after all. Cold blooded and all. Christ’s sake her alias was a reference to the moment she had taken her husband’s life, leading onto the weapon and gadget allusions used in the felid of work. So why had she chose to safe the girl anyway. Why hadn’t she just watched in amusement from her perched top at the sight of a fellow foe get crushed beneath the tons of rubble? Why did she _feel_ like it would have been all her fau-

Why did she _feel_?

Feel?

_Feel?_

_(What.)_

A groan snapped her out from her trance, watching as the other woman’s hands were now reaching out to the comforters of the bed. She watched them tense and claw at ruffles, grasping it and pulling it upwards. While one did that, the other switched and moved to her chest, scratching at the machine and just above at her chest.

An unconditional appearance of sheer agony.

Amelie Lacroix therefore inhaled a deep breath and _sighed_. Her fingers were swift, movement’s fluid as she quickly tapped the needed pressure points around Tracer’s body. Immediately once finished, her eyes were sent to the back of her head and her limbs went flaccid in all tension and movement.

“Foolish girl,” she huffed out while taking caution, slipping one arm under both knees and the other just below her back. “Foolish _foolish_ petty silly little girl.”

She repeated the concept of the phrase over and over, telling and enlightening every aspect of her mind. How this girl was a nuisance, a complete dope of an idiot to get caught in such a petty made ensnare. What idiocy, what stupidity, what _inanity_. She told herself this as her arms gently, very _gently_ lowered the woman’s body onto her ( _her own_ ) bed yet again. She told herself this as her hands grasped at the bent arms and legs of the heroine and straightened them out, precise and careful.

She did tell herself these things, she really did.

Even as her head was lowered, the infidelity of her own being weighing down on her neck as her lips came into contact with the slumbering woman’s head.

…

…

…

“Winston! Winston help! She’s going to feed my skin to her pet cockroaches! Winston get me out of here quick! Request escort! Reques-”

“Alright.”

“Winston! Mercy! Anyone c’MO-”

“Alright! That’s enough,” Amelie finally came to say, slapping her hand atop the rambling girls mouth and glaring hard. “Winston isn’t coming for you. Neither are any of your other insignificant little friends. For now, it’s just you,” smirking, “and me. So I’m going to need you to calm down before you make another one of those ribs pop out. Kap _eesh_?”

Silence --an introspection of the same sort sprung to life in both women’s minds.

“MmfhYy?”

“Eh?”

Tracer rolled her eyes, pausing for a moment until a devilish thought came to mind.

“Oi ordures dégoûtantes![disgusting garbage!]” Amelie yelled, pulling back her hand and wiping the spit of Tracer’s tongue onto the side of her thigh.

“Kapeesh,” she grinned, the triumph only lasting a few seconds before the pain hit once more and her body lit with trembling nerves.

“You are an idiot,” Amelie sighed, pushing Tracer’s body back down. “You know this, yes?”

“Hey now!” she tried at yelling, more of coming out as a winded whisper. “Take that back! I’m more smarter than you’ll ever beee*wheeze*!”

“You mean smarter?”

“Shut _u_ \--*hack* *cough*”

“Grammar,” tsking her head side to side.

A tension wouldn’t be able to describe the silent air between them. Because it wasn’t tense. It was relaxed to a fair extent, Tracer realizing that if Widowmaker really wanted her dead, then she wouldn’t be in what appeared to be Widowmaker’s apartment.

( _Comfy bed_ \-- mentally added as well)

“Soo*wheeze*-”

“Please don’t. Your ribs are still in the process of mending Lena.”

Lena frowned, frustrated to perplexed. When did she give her name to Amelie?

“You talk in your sleep.”

She shivered both from the thought of Widowmaker watching her in her sleep and lack of a jacket wrapped around her. Instead it was her tanktop usually worn underneath it.

On the other hand of this, Tracer wasn’t entirely wrong when making the assumption that Amelie had been watching her in her unconscious state. In fact, to say “watch” would be underrated. More like “examining-a-whole-new-specimen” since she just couldn’t figure out what connection her mind seemed to be intertwining with this woman’s form.

So they sat in silence. Once again.

…

…

…

 

Soon days had gone by.

 “What kind of soup is this huh? Poison-worm soup? I knew it! I knew this was your initial intention!”

“To poisen you with a worms.”

“Yes!”

“…”

“Admit it now! Go on love, I’m waiting!”

( _Idiot_ –even as heart did a skip-beat to the tag _love_ …)

“It’s chicken noodle soup.”

“…oh. Right.”

…

…

…

Two to three weeks or so. Honestly, Lena wasn’t entirely sure. She was too busy letting her multiple bones mend and patch up.

“Ay, Amelie it hurts,” she whined, fisting up her hands.

“It’s going to hurt,” Amelie responded, still continuing to feel over Tracers abdomen. “But I need to make sure your ribs are healing correctly.”

“Can’t you just use that zap-thingy Winston usually uses? It –ow –it’s way less painful than thI –OW!”

“Any use of machinery created by Overwatch undoubtedly has a tracking device or something of the sort. I don’t risk having any in the place I rest.”

Lena grumbled, muttering a quick, “Fine,” before wincing again. “Just be a bit more gently will you? And how are you doing it anyway? How can you tell what –ow!”

“Hush, I’m working.”

“No you’re not you’re laughi –ow alright alright I’m shutting up!”

…

…

…

Until she finally took her first step off the bed, laughing happily while Amelie simply smiled and caught her as she tripped after trying to take a second.

“I did it! I finally –oh god it felt so good!”

“Je savais que vous pourriez le faire. [I knew you could do it]”

“I have no idea what you said.”

Then they were both laughing, Lena wrapping both arms around her neck tightly while Amelie made sure to support her weight by bringing her close.

And they were gazing, laughing dying to chuckles to nothing. And they were both staring, eyes darting up and down up and down.

Widowmaker and Tracer.

Lena and Amelie.

The bad and the good. The good and the bad.

K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

The sin of it all and yet the desperation of the entire situation itself. Widowmaker was _feeling_ while Amelie was being flooded with mounds and pounds of emotions and sentiments shown only through the way her hands had begun grasping firmly to Lena’s tank top. Tracer was _confounded_ while Lena was all but alive and giggling giddiness at the goodness of the moment, of how ethereal everything is and was and _will_ be.

Because even when Tracer was deemed fit to leave, and Widowmaker allowed her to leave –“A favor” –she owed in which Tracer happily shrugged to.

Enemies Widowmaker and Tracer may presently be.

But Lena Oxten? And Amelie Lacroix?

A whole different story.

**Author's Note:**

> plasticface.tumblr.com/
> 
> ^3^


End file.
